Broom Closet
by animekraze
Summary: Ivan and his "mysterious guest" enjoying one of their routines in a broom closet. Warning for content not suitable for the young, and rare pair.


**I like the idea of Ivan as some big, giant puppy that wants to be hugged all the time, but because he's so big people are afraid of him. **

**Anyway, it's an excuse to write…this. **

**With "mystery" person.

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**

He's fairly tall; though nowhere near as tall as Ivan, he is still as tall as the average man. Despite his comparably puny height, he is muscular and lean, always bragging about how his favorite pastime is working out in a gym. And it shows.

Despite his muscles, and not to mention his inflated ego, he seems so small and thin in his arms. He wraps his arms around his neck, and somehow Ivan is afraid that those arms could snap. He presses his chest against his, and somehow Ivan is afraid that it'll disappear within himself.

Despite all that, this comparably smaller statured young man can easily slip a hand underneath his coat, his shirt, and onto his skin. His hands are always burning hot; so hot that it burns and tingles everyplace the tips of his fingers touch. He's always very warm, like a boiling broth, especially against Ivan's chilly skin. His breath even hotter, when he whispers in Ivan's ear, "Like butterflies on sunflowers." as he lightly trails his fingers over Ivan's ribs.

Out in the sun, he never stops talking, always moving, and always doing something. Like something high strung with a need to quickly unwind. Then, when he slips into the dark, he's calm and controlled, but easily vulnerable. He whispers, waits, unnervingly quiet. "A lion always waits for his prey." He jokes, always, before slipping his hands under the coat.

Hands always unnervingly cold at the spot below his scarf, and thankfully he never slips his hands beneath the scarf. His burning fingers, like comfortable coal, trails in painstakingly small steps down his chest. They linger here for the longest time, stealing small gropes before finally sliding them further down. "Like butterflies on sunflowers." He whispers, pressing his fingers deeper into Ivan's skin and roughly gliding them down his stomach. By the time he reaches the pit of Ivan's stomach, the hands are just as warm as Ivan's skin, and they melt.

Ivan gasps, like always, pressing his back further against the wall and his face further into the scarf. Ivan whispers his name repeatedly in his scarf, biting his bottom lip before a loud groan rips through his throat.

And he grins, grabbing Ivan's length and pumping a hand slowly, but firmly up and down to the rhythm of Ivan's breathing. With the other hand, he slips a finger into the scarf and pulls it down to see Ivan's flush face. "I don't really think it's fair that I do all the work." He whispers, gently guiding Ivan's hands (no longer cold) to himself, working them. He sighs and shudders, pressing himself against Ivan, and kisses his chest. He grits his teeth, and Ivan can hear the gnashing, and a sudden release of hot air on his bare chest. He can barely handle it himself, but he keeps going.

It ends with a shout of Ivan's name (or his—usually his), and it's quiet—a strained groan or whisper. It lingers, a ring in the ears, as Ivan swallows the saliva in his mouth and slides his back down the wall. And then he steals a kiss, a long one, while the air is still heavy, and while he still has some energy left.

They end with cleaning. "I wouldn't really mind if it was my house." He chuckles, handkerchief in hand, soon to be left in a garbage can where the cleaning ladies will find it, clicking their tongues and sighing with exasperation. "But, you know." He grins all the while, pulling his boxers up his hips, that particular article of clothing abused from being wrapped around his ankles.

All the while Ivan remains silent as his partner whispers nonsense to him, taking up brooms and making lewd comments. Ivan listens to the silence in his own voice, in _his_ voice, and before he knows it the door opens and it's all gone.

He turns swiftly, having checked both ways for any unwanted eyes. It is the middle of the night; the worst they could get is a disturbed security guard (who won't talk and they'll make sure). He reaches up, fixes the scarf so it's loose around Ivan's neck, and makes sure the buttons aren't in disarray. "So, like I was saying. Your breasts belong to me, understand?"

* * *

**Ambiguity, even I don't understand why I did that. **

**OH HAAYYY**


End file.
